Fragment
by Fetal
Summary: Crippled by the guilt of an unforeseen death, Harry Potter does not know what is in store for him when he returns for the Fifth Year at Hogwarts. Slandered by the Ministry and Prophet and annexed by his own friends, something within Harry snaps. An evil awakened within him, he will do unto the world what they did to him. (Neutral!Harry, HP/LV, Weasley!Hermione!Bashing)
1. Chapter One

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Harry Potter. All characters, organizations, spell craft, and such material belongs to J. K. Rowling and Warner Bros. All Rights reserved to the respective parties. This is a work of Fan Fiction and has no profitable gain. This still applies in my later chapters, though I choose not to reiterate.

**Warning:** Slash (graphic and offensive material, suicide attempts, underage sex, major character deaths, scenes of child abuse, attempted rape, gore, murder. Weasley, Hermione and Dumbledore (Slight) bashing. This is not a story to be enjoyed with good humor, expectations of fluff, or even coffee. The theme is dark, there will be many scenes of defamation of corpses, mentions of implied genocide, and other strictly mature matters.

**Note:** It is my great belief that you don't officially become a Fan Fiction author without dabbling in the pool of clichés. So after much consideration on what I overplayed storyline I wanted to do the most, I settled on the theme of betrayal. No, Harry will not be subjected to Azkaban imprisonment – but he might as well be. The quick prejudice of the Wizarding World and anything they deem Dark or cannot/will not understand astounds me sometimes; which is exactly why I'll be tweaking around with this idea. Hopefully it works out well. Remember to review because, well, I like to know your thoughts.

**Synopsis:** Crippled by the guilt of an unforeseen death, Harry Potter does not know what is in store for him when he returns for the Fifth Year at Hogwarts. Slandered by the Ministry and Prophet and annexed by his own friends, something within Harry snaps. An evil awakened within him, he will do unto the world what they did to him. | Neutral!Harry, Slash, Weasley!Hermione!Bashing |

―

**Chapter One**

―

An impenetrable silence rested stiffly over Privet Drive, reducing the once polished community dry and desolate. Grasses, overgrown and parched yellow, withered under the glare of sunlight. Cars, no longer glistening, stood unused and dusty in their drives. Many windows had been opened wide in hopes of tempting a stray breeze inside scorching homes and cooling the owners who had shut themselves away to escape the blaze of that July summer. Such was the case for the resident of the smallest bedroom in number four. With the curtains drawn back and window agape, Harry Potter lied on his bed in the sweltering heat. Moisture prickled the hairs of his arms, face and underarms, bringing discomfort to the boy. With a near glazed, drowsy look in his eyes, Harry stared mutely at the wavering ceiling above him as many thoughts and questions restlessly pulled at his subconscious; each pertained with a _why _factor. _Why_ he was once again stuck in Privet Drive, isolated from the world in which he belonged. _Why _he was receiving no words from his friends or godfather. _Why_ he was unable to purge his mind of the nightmares that sought to shatter his already fragile psyche.

A sigh, long and riddled with resignation, bitterness and tinged with grief, left his dry lips as the dark-haired boy rolled to his side and stared with dejection at the empty cage on the nightstand. Hedwig, his only connection the world of magic, had not returned in nearly a fortnight. She'd been gone longer before, sure, but during those times Harry _actually _had letters to expect, things to keep him occupied until she returned and gave him console in the times of darkness. Already nearing the end of July, his birthday approaching, and the boy was growing desperate for _some _sort of acknowledgement – he was even willing to face his relatives, the Dursley's if it meant not being left alone with his thoughts. But no, for a first time in more than a decade, his relatives outright ignored his existence. They did not demand him to do chores or cook, they did nothing to him. Before, Harry would have accepted this behavior with relief and joy, but once all his summer homework had been completed, his school textbooks from First Year to Fourth had been abused greatly with his reading and rereading of the tomes, boredom was inevitable.

Waiting was more unbearable, however.

He was always _waiting_. For a sign, a note, _something_. Nothing ever came, and Harry was forced to face this isolation with a growing swell of depression in his heart and unease in his stomach. He couldn't explain it, the strange, unsettling sensation in the back of his mind that warned him that things weren't right, but in spite of his persistent letters (whenever Hedwig returned) to Ron and Hermione, his friends never replied to him. At first, Harry had thought Dobby the House-Elf was once again interfering with his letters, and he had even called the elf to him but the creature insisted that he had no part of in it. Yet the worst of this time spent to himself was the memories; always the memories. Every night, try as he might to direct his dreams to another focus, Harry found himself returning to the graveyard scene. And always watching Cedric Diggory die. It was painful, maddening and destructive to watch the other boy die and know that he was hapless to do anything. More nights then none, Harry awoke with a scream of Cedric's name on his lips and tears in his eyes.

The guilt that he felt was profuse, ever present and unrelenting in its determination to never let him forget.

At some point during the evening, Harry's eyes had fallen heavy with heat induced exhaustion and he fell into a slumber flecked with dreams of screams. When he awoke the next day, eyes squinting blearily at the watery pink horizon outside his window, Harry reached for his glasses and slipped them on. A quick check of the clock informed him it was well past ten in the morning, which means that he had slept through all of yesterday. No great consequences there – this was actually the first time he had slept more than four hours. Raising his arms above his head and stretching, he grabbed a quick shower, redressed and spent much of the morning and afternoon wandering around Little Whinging. By late evening, drenched in sweat and slightly out of breath after jogging (out of boredom), Harry returned to number four, grabbed himself an apple from the kitchen and returned to his room.

By nightfall, Harry had been immersed in his Fourth year edition Potions textbook when the strange, prickling sensation in the back of his mind grew in portion. Blinking and looking up from the page, the boy looked over at the clock and his mouth fell open in silent surprise. It was midnight – he was officially fifteen. Forgetting the tome in his lap, Harry fixed his eyes onto the open window, wondering, waiting, _expecting_ a letter or present. He knew, logically, that nothing would probably come until tomorrow, but as midnight rolled into two in the morning, the dark-haired youth finally conceded and turned over to sleep. When morning came and he had showered, dressed and eaten, Harry once again sat in the center of his bed and waited for a sign that he friends had not forgotten about him. But, by late evening and as the Dursley's became to tuck in to bed, his heart dropped into the pits of his stomach with a sickening splash. The vulnerability, the fear of being forgotten and unwanted ensnarled his mind, whispering all the things he didn't want to hear.

_(It's your fault Cedric died. You may have well killed him yourself. _

_They don't want you anymore. _

_You aren't needed._

_Freak.) _

Like a mantra of a religious cult those words echoed in his mind, over and over again until Harry tore at his own hair in hopes of the pain inflicted would distract his mind. It worked to a degree, but not enough, never enough, to truly drown out the low voices in his mind.

Near mid-August, on the twenty-first, Harry knew he could no longer evade a trip to Diagon Alley to gather his school supplies. Despite all past jubilance he had taken with each visitation to the Wizarding village, to think of it now left a sick, heavy feeling to his tongue. It was a bit distressing to say the least that he would not be completing his school shopping with his friends of the Weasley family, but Harry was growing to accept – even if he could not understand why – that he his friends were either too busy for him or merely wanted nothing to do with him. After having to write to Hagrid and ask for his escort into Diagon Alley, Harry sat himself on the front steps of number four next day.

Regardless of the good attempts at humor Hagrid made in hopes of lightening the miserable boys mood, Harry merely walked beside the half-giant with a tired step and bowed head. Though he couldn't explain the feeling of dread that coursed through his system when they entered into the Leaky Cauldron, Harry could not escape the looks of animosity that trailed him as they stepped into Diagon Alley. People whispered as he passed, but that alone shouldn't have caused a strain of despondent in him – they've always whispered before, but the fuel of rumors and speculations this time were vicious and meant to cause emotional harm. As he exited Madam Malkin's, a feather-light and expandable parcel full of trousers, black vest, white button down shirts, robes and socks, Harry came to a stop before the shop. Coming his way were Hermione and Ron. Ron, having grown considerably over the summer, towered Harry's five-eight stature by several feet. He still appeared gangly and unaccustomed to his long limbs, however. Hermione had also changed from the summer holiday, her hair more tamed than ever and tied to the nape of her neck. Both, who had been chatting animatedly, stopped and stared at him. Hermione with a conflicted expression; Ron eyed him with heavy distrust.

"Hey, guys," said Harry hesitantly, a weak smile on his lips that immediately died away when Ron and Hermione shared a hasty look, glanced back him and proceeded to push past him without a word. They may have well slapped the dark-haired boy with that cold silence that he had given him. For far too long it was hard to breath, to think past that panicking series of why's in his head.

Hagrid came up to him, ice cream cones in hand a deep frown of concern on his face as he took in the pale face of Harry. "Yeh aright there 'Arry?" he asked softly.

_(I'm not okay. _

_I'm not okay. _

_I'm not – ) _

"I'm okay," Harry managed to say hoarsely before clearing his throat smiling tightly at the half-giant. "Mind if we just finish up a little quicker? I'm really tired."

"Sur' 'Arry, come on."

After Hagrid had returned Harry to Privet Drive, and the while asking repeatedly if he was truly fine, Harry spent a half-hour cleaning out his school trunk of rubbish and placing the material for the upcoming term inside. Once done and more drained than he'd ever felt in his life, the dark-haired youth had hauled himself into his narrow bed and turned away from the open window. Hedwig, who had returned while he was away, hooted to try and grab her master's attention, but Harry ignored her and closed his eyes. He breathed, once, twice, and thrice more till his throat closed off and a lump formed. Tears burned his vision and silent sobs shook his slender frame as he (_desperately_) tried to retain whatever control he had over himself.

_(They don't want you._

_They don't need you._

_You should just vanish. _

_Unwanted freak. ) _

He shattered.

―

It was a strange thing to Harry, to cry for hours at an end because he had never cried before when he was younger. He didn't cry when he was beaten by his uncle for the first time. He didn't cry when his cousin and his gangs pummeled into him. He didn't cry when he faced his parents' murderer for a third time. But now – now he was crying and he couldn't stop. His heart felt so fragile, so full of all the years of stored hurt and unhappiness, and crying was the only way to release them. Eventually, though, his tears ran dry and he was forced to lay there in the darkness of his bedroom, exhausted and shaking with remnants of sobs. Daylight had broken by the time the boy had mustered the strength to drag himself into the bathroom for a shower. As he dressed, Harry pointedly looked anywhere but his reflection the wardrobe mirror. He knew who he appeared – small and frail; the wind itself could blow him away. His skin was an unhealthy white, dark circles marring the lids of his eyes. His hair, overgrown and wild, hung around his gaunt face.

Grabbing onto his school trunk, Harry spared a second to watch as Hedwig soared out the window and headed for Hogwarts ahead of him, shook his head and joined his family downstairs. The Dursley's gave no indication of knowing he was there, and the drive to King's Cross station was a stiff affair. Mumbling a monotonous farewell to his relatives, Harry watched their departure through hanging bangs, sighed, and turned to push his trolley into the pillar. Platform Nine and Three-Quarters was its usual buzz of energy and voices, from the screeches of felines down to the hoots of owls, but Harry, sorely aware of the eyes burning malic into his back, hurried along. With a precautious step, he charmed his trunk locked and spelled to rebel any who would intrude upon it, stored it into the storing compartment and took a seat in the last compartment at the end of the train.

Harry didn't go looking for his friends because he knew (_he was afraid_) that they would very much likely greet him with the same coldness as before. Which he just couldn't comprehend as to why. What had he done to deserve such unjustified treatment of them? _It's just like before_, he thought with a hollow resentment. _Just like last year when they all turned on me for something I didn't do and couldn't control. _

If he throat wasn't already so raw from crying earlier, Harry would have laughed, bitterly, at this twisted event that was playing before him instead he retreated into himself and watched without really seeing as the world outside of the compartment window blurred and blinded by. He continued this tactic of ignorance to what occurred around him as he climbed into a carriage with a bunch of Slytherin's he didn't know, eyes trained firmly on his shoes from the ride over to the castle and throughout the Welcoming Feast. He wasn't hungry and hadn't really had much of an appetite for some time, so he spent the time shoveling the food around his plate. Harry, acutely aware of the odd, and sometimes hostile, looks his housemates were giving him when they thought he wasn't paying attention. He didn't care (_he cared too much_) and as the last of the students filed out the Great Hall, Harry waited until a second before Professor McGonagall could make her way over to him and demand as to why he was loitering, before leaving as well.

The corridors were silent, eerily so but Harry took this moment of quiet as a blessing. His limbs, as thin as they were, felt a thousand pounds too heavy as he shuffled his way to Gryffindor tower. As he approached the Fat Lady, Harry realized with that he didn't know what the password was.

"Hello," he said.

"Hello, Harry, dear," the Fat Lady greeted in return, a bright smile on her face. "Didn't get the password now – did you, dearie?"

"No, ma'am," Harry mumbled, having the sense of feeling sheepish.

She clucked her tongue with an indulgent, fond grin. "Well just this once then – yes? The password is Unity."

Nodding his thanks, Harry stepped the portrait hole and into the common room. He came to a halt, eyes surveying the scene before him. All were present, every year, Prefects and Head boy and girl, and in the front of this group stood Ron and Hermione. There was a thick, wretched moment of absolute silence in which Harry regarded his housemates with confusion and wariness and they looked to him with contempt in their eyes.

"Is something wrong?" He managed to ask through stiff lips. No one answered him, many shifting their gaze onto the floor, face paper white in…in fear. "Is there something you all want to say to me?"

That got them going.

"Why didn't you tell any of us about your connection with You-Know-Who?" asked Ron, a dark red flushing creeping into his cheeks. "All this time – all this time you've been hiding the fact that you've got some freaky mind-bond with You-Know-Who." He gave a short, choppy laugh. It sounded all wrong, too wrong. "And here you demanding to know what was going on. You just expect everyone do what you say, don't you, Harry. You want us to explain ourselves to you when you never do. You've lied to us all this time."

Harry blinked, a crestfallen expression on his face as his mind raced to digest what was being said. His eyes turned to Hermione, imploring her to see reason, to tell them so. She looked away coolly. "You think I hid that from you on purpose," he echoed dully. "You really think that what people say about me is true – that I'm mad, that I'm going dark – becoming the next Dark Lord because of a glitch of connection that I didn't even realize I had until a few months ago?"

"Those articles were based on facts," someone from the crowd jeered.

"And you just admitted to it," another spat out.

"Traitor!"

"I didn't – I wouldn't!" Harry exclaimed, eyes wide with a feverish light of distress. "I have never betrayed any of you! How could any of you believe anything that Rita Skeeter or anyone else writes about me? It's utter rubbish and complete lies!"

"It's not a lie if you just verified it here and now," Hermione cut across icily. "You didn't trust us with the whole details on what happens during the Third Trial. You never told any of us about the connection between you and the You-Know-Who. You've already admitted to keeping things from us, potentially dangerous things. How can we not believe the articles that the Ministry had certified to be the truth?"

Maybe it was the overall exhaustion that suffocated his body, that slackened his posture, or perhaps it was even the growing pain behind his eyes and temples but Harry could no longer stand the play before him. "Fine," he mumbled. "Believe what you want – say what you want. I can't even care at this point." With that he pushed past the throng of first years clustered in front of the dormitory steps and made his way upstairs. He was not even a few paces away when the words of his House sprang out.

"Did you see that –"

" - already going dark from what I hear."

"I always knew there was something off about it!"

"He's probably as mad as they say - "

He slammed the door close behind him. Throwing his outer robes onto his bed, Harry yanked the curtains closed and burrowed himself under the blanket. His chest felt constricted, and he couldn't breathe again. He briefly wondered if he was having a panic attack, but squashed the idea down as a shaky exhale tumbled from his trembling lips. Moisture clung to his lashes, but no tears were shed.

He wouldn't cry.

_(See? What did I say – they don't want you._

_They never did. _

_They all hate you, you know. _

_Everyone hates you._

_You should just disappear. _

_I'm sure they would be more than happy -) _

"Shut up!" the scream tore free, resounding violently in the too still room. "Shut up! Shut up!" He repeated, hands clasped over his ears. "Please…please…just shut up."


	2. Chapter Two

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Harry Potter. All characters, organizations, spell craft, and such material belongs to J. K. Rowling and Warner Bros. All Rights reserved to the respective parties. This is a work of Fan Fiction and has no profitable gain. This still applies in my later chapters, though I choose not to reiterate.

**Warning:** Slash (graphic and offensive material, suicide attempts, underage sex, major character deaths, scenes of child abuse, attempted rape, gore, murder. Weasley, Hermione and Dumbledore (Slight) bashing. This is not a story to be enjoyed with good humor, expectations of fluff, or even coffee. The theme is dark, there will be many scenes of defamation of corpses, mentions of implied genocide, and other strictly mature matters.

**Synopsis:** Crippled by the guilt of an unforeseen death, Harry Potter does not know what is in store for him when he returns for the Fifth Year at Hogwarts. Slandered by the Ministry and Prophet and annexed by his own friends, something within Harry snaps. An evil awakened within him, he will do unto the world what they did to him. | Neutral!Harry, Slash, Weasley!Hermione!Bashing |

―

**Chapter Two**

―

Sun barely over the horizon and the sky still tinted with indigo, Harry was the first within his House to awaken and dress. After dressing quietly and quickly, he grabbed his summer homework, reinstalled the protective charms around his trunk and left the dormitory. His stomach, a worming knot of unease and nausea, felt too uncomfortable for Harry to even consider grabbing something to eat. Shrugging the strap of his bag higher up on his shoulder, Harry made his way to McGonagall's office and, after a few swept knocks, appealed to her to give him his time table earlier. She had appeared to want to comment on his less-then put together appearance, but Harry darted off before the words could leave her mouth. Chewing the corner of his mouth, he inwardly sighed at the schedule for the week. History of Magic, Double Potions, Divination, and Double Defense Against the Dark Arts. Professor Binns, Snape and Trelawney he could handle well enough, however this new professor, a Ministry official, would most likely pose a problem. Harry sighed, brows knitting together as he made his way towards the second floor.

The sudden loss of his footing on the staircase caught him off guard. His feet skidded against the marble steps, hands fumbling towards the banister when hands pushed him away. The fall hurt, everything hurt as he tumbled down the steps and with a sickening, meaty crack his face bashed against the floor. A roar laughter sounded around him. Vision swimming violently, Harry shakily grabbed his broken glasses with one hand and cradled his bleeding nose and mouth with the other.

"Not so mighty now, you slimly traitor," sneered the voice of Ron through fits of laughter.

Blood seeped persistently between his fingers and down his chin. Harry, rising uneasily to his feet once more, turned to face the group of boys. His vision was still off, mucked by the loss of his glasses, but he recognized the leering faces of Dean and Seamus. Stumbling away from the whole lot of them, Harry stuck close enough to corridor walls to avoid the stretched out legs of those wanting a go at him also. He walked blindly, mumbling apologies to the younger students he ran into and shying away from those close to his own age and older. Groping at the door near the end of the desolate corridor, he staggered inside and closed it behind him, sliding to the floor. His fingers, shaking madly, wrapped around his wand.

"_O-oculus reparo_," Harry whispered, directly the wand point to his glasses.

Placing his mended glasses back onto the bridge of his nose, Harry ignored the smudge of red around the lenses as he experimentally touched his nose. It wasn't broken, thankfully, but it was still bleeding and ached along with his jaw, forehead and mouth. Wiping away the stream of blood flowing from his nostrils, Harry gathered his bearing. The room was an abandoned classroom, covered in fine, powdery brown dust. Outside of the door he could hear the distant steps of students, their voices carrying away. He breathed a sigh, eyes closing as a vicious throbbing pulsing sensation made itself known in his temples and eyes. Drawing back his damp hands, Harry peered at the red stained palms and digits with a grimace on his face.

This wasn't the first time he had been a target of bullying – far from it. He'd dealt with his cousin, his uncle, and anyone else in his neighborhood who wanted a go at him. Still, even when everyone had believed him to be the Slytherin Heir during his Second Year, and thought he had entered himself into the Tri-Wizard Tournament last year, they had never been so _physically_ cruel to him. They had taunted, insinuated and used their words to cut at him, but to go the point in which they were causing him actual harm…Harry laughed, his voice dry and shaking.

The part of him that did not want to think harshly of his housemates, that sought to understand their reasoning and see things through their perspective, reminded him of the end of the last term. He, one of the Champions, returning with the dead body of a fellow student and claiming that Lord Voldemort had returned. There hadn't been enough time to give a detailed explanation, he hadn't told them what had happened in the graveyard, and while he'd been locked away in Privet Drive they've had a whole summer to think, to speculate. Of course they would distrust him. Of course they would be angry. But still…still they did not have to go this far.

Returning to unsteady feet, Harry winced at the sharp sting of pain in his legs. With a flick of his wand, the blood that stained his hands, face and shirt vanished. He cleaned off his glasses using the hem of his robes, put them back on, and left the deserted classroom. A quick _tempus_ showed there was still an hour and a half before the first bell rang, which left him another frown marring his features. Making his way to the History of Magic classroom, Harry knocked uncertainty on the door.

"Come in," was the droning invite of Professor Binns.

Harry opened the door and slipped inside, closing it behind him and taking a seat farthest in the back of the room and close enough to the door to be the first one out when it ended. Professor Binns, face slack of emotions, filtered over to where Harry sat.

'You have a spot of blood on your jaw, Mr. Potter," he informed stoically, translucent eyes aimed to the spot he spoke of.

"Oh," was all Harry could think to say as he scrubbed away the offending liquid with pursued lips.

There was a few seconds worth of silence, Professor Binns eying Harry with a contemplative glean in his eyes. "Have you finished your assigned homework, Mr. Potter?"

"Yes, Sir," murmured Harry, digging through his bag and placing the roll of parchment atop of the desk. "I wasn't quite sure how detailed you wanted our subject material to be, but – "

"I'm sure what you have is sufficient, Mr. Potter," Professor Binns interjected. "You are free to turn it in now and return to breakfast."

Biting the corner of his mouth, Harry stood up and walked towards the professor's desk in the center of the classroom and dropped his homework atop of it. Spinning around to face Professor Binns, his jaw strained to unhinge as the ghost waited with patience as Harry fought to figure out what to say. "Um, professor, can I – can I stay here until class begins?" Harry asked meekly, eyes downcast.

"You are not hungry, Mr. Potter?"

"No, Sir."

Professor Binns snorted and waved a careless hand directly to Harry's chair. "Return to your seat then, Mr. Potter."

"Thank you, Sir," Harry breathed out in relief, scurrying back to his seat and taking out a fresh roll of parchment, quill and ink for when the lecture began. There was no need to converse with Professor Binns from henceforth for Harry was too busy picking at his nails and the History of Magic professor's focus settled on different matters that did not pertain to the boy sitting in the far back. When the first bell of the day signaled the beginning of the classes, it took more willpower than Harry thought himself to possess at that moment to not shrink away from the hostile glares sent his way. No one sat next to him, or even in the desk beside or in front of him. They sat as far away from him as possibly could, acting as if Harry was a plague brought upon the earth.

He sniffed.

It was going to be a long day.

―

True to his belief that it indeed would be a strenuous day, by the time dinner had approached, Harry could not gather any remaining energy to enter the Great Hall. Every inch of him _hurt_. Being in the corridors had become an invitation to be tripped, pushed into walls, and _accidentally _elbowed in the stomach. To make matters worse, the new Defense Against the Dark Arts professor seemed determined to humiliate and warrant a rise out of him. Harry, apathetic to her insinuations that he was a liar, had sat by mutely. The snide remarks of his housemates also didn't help the situation. The only class in which the other Gryffindor's actually behaved themselves was during Potions. Snape, whether a small act of mercy or pity, had settled on the other Gryffindor's like a vulture if they so much as looked in his general direction. That alone was enough to bring a swell of gratitude in Harry's heart for the silver-tongued Potions Master who never had anything nice to say.

Trying to relieve the pressure from his sprained ankle, Harry waved away the Fat Lady's concerned enquires, gave the password and entered into the common room. Thankfully empty of all students, Harry made his way into the boys' dormitory. What he saw nearly made him collapse in horror. There in the metal, circular fireplace, _burning_, was his Firebolt. Stepping closer on numb legs, Harry flew to his knees before the lively fireplace, eyes wide as he caught sight of a photo album and a glimpse of silvery material. His things – gone, burned, taken from him.

(_Snap_)

He crawled over to his open trunk, vision obscured by the presence of tears. He paid no mind to the slanderous, insulting words painted along the once gold and crimson trunk, he merely stared at the insides, covered in water and mud. His school books were ruined, his clothing tarnished.

(_Snap_)

He tried breathing, tried to calm his mind, to still his racing heart but his blood boiled, his body shook, his soul screamed and his tears ran free. How could they – how could they do something so cruel, something so terrible and uncalled for. Everything, they had taken everything important to him away out of spite and anger and fear. Dropping his head between his knees, Harry gripped his hair tightly, rocking himself slightly as fractures appeared through his walls of defense. _No_, he thought, _remain strong. Don't fall, don't fall_.

"Oh look, the little traitors crying."

Harry did not raise his head at the sound of cool, drawling feminine voice. Hermione, his mind supplied, but he paid it no mind. Pressing his palms into his eyes, he attempted to smother away his tears, pretending to not hear the various laughter from people he once called friends.

"It's only what he deserves," inputted someone – Lavender – with a titter.

"Someone like him shouldn't even be alive."

"Yeah, Cedric should have lived."

"Why don't you go do use all a favor a jump off a tower, eh, Potter?"

_Kids are so cruel_, a voice in his mind whispered in despair. _They are ruthless, mean creatures of words and ignorance. _He would have agreed. Drawing himself back onto his feet, Harry pushed past the swarm of people at the entrance of the dormitory. Someone tried to trip him on his way down the stairs, he stumbled and caught him, increasing his speed. Tearing out of Gryffindor tower, Harry gripped his schoolbag to his chest, and head held down as he sped off mindlessly. When cold air greeted his face, he sucked in greedy mouthfuls, hiccups rising in his throat. He could feel the point of his wand digging into his chest through his bag, a small act of remembrance that he could do magic; could hurt them all just as equally. But he couldn't – he wouldn't.

_That would make me no better than them_, Harry thought bag sliding the floor of the astronomy tower as he wrapped his thin fingers around the thick, black railing. The air was warm, carrying a slight breeze that sent his hair spiraling behind him. Tightening his grip on the railing, Harry lowered his eyes from the star speckled sky to the ground below. Far f_ar _down below, right to the point where it appeared like an endless fall. His fingers slackened, tightened and sweated all at once as he nervously licked his dry lips.

(_If you jump the air will catch you) _

Harry shook his head to clear it, eyes opening and staring. The ledge of the tower was suddenly too close, he blinked, and looked to where his legs had swung over the railing. He sat atop of it now, feet over the edge and hands holding onto the iron stubbornly.

_(Let go)_

"I'm scared," he whispered, eyes closing to close off the world around him.

_(Let go) _

"I don't want to die."

_(But they do. They don't want you, they never did)_

He choked on a sob. "Why won't any listen to me – why…what did I do to deserve this?"

_(You lived and he didn't. It's only fair) _

"I don't want to die…I don't want to die…Please…just…please…"

"**You don't want to die, Harry." **

The voice, whispered and sounding as if it had been spoken into his ear, stunned him into silence, his grip loosening only a tiny bit before Harry held on tightly once more. It repeated his own words to him, a statement that warranted a further stream of tears down his cheeks. "I don't," he sniffed. "I don't want to die. It wasn't my fault, I didn't kill him – I didn't know that would happen – I –"

"**I understand, Harry,"** came the same low whisper in his ear – no in his mind. The words echoed in his mind. **"You're only a child, they expect so much of you. So much more than a child should have to give." **

He whimpered.

"**It's not your fault he died, Harry. You are not to blame. You will never be the one to blame,"** continued the soothing speaker in his mind. "**Climb off of there, Harry. I'll take care of you from now on. I'll never leave you. I will never hurt you." **

Too good to be true were those words, but in the wake of what had transpired in the past two days, when his mind was forced to recall the pointed hatred delivered his way, Harry's heart, desperate for _someone_ – even a voice within his head – that would finally show him a level of kindness, of concern, opened itself to silky speaker. And how the burdens in his heart lifted, vaporized as those they had never existed beforehand. Harry did not remember retreating from over his dangerous perch, but to find himself away from an _(inevitable)_ harm was a small blessing. He leaned against the stone wall of the tower, hands compressed over his heart. It beat steadily beneath his fingers, a tempo that refused to spike or drop; consistent.

"**I can make them pay, Harry. I can make them hurt just as they hurt you. Ask and I shall help you." **

Such a tempting offer but vengeance, especially one intended to harm those he still saw slivers of hope of rekindling friendship with, is not in his blood. Anger, hurt, betrayal, yes, but he could never hurt them. Not physically…

"**You don't need them as friends, Harry. You don't need anyone. You have me and I will never you." **

He laughed, a scratchy sound that came out broken and sore. "You're a voice in my head," he pointed out, feeling foolish for speaking aloud to begin with.

"**That only means I will be ever present, Harry. I can never leave you or betray you. I will defend you, if you let me." **

"How?"

"**Just close your eyes, Harry. Relax your mind…Yes, that's it…" **

―

Albus Dumbledore was a bundle of nerves and worry.

Long fingers, thin and with skin hanging gently from the bone, rapped restlessly against the surface of the brown oak desk. Open tomes, letters, time tables and trinkets lay splayed over the desk, but all this he ignored along with the mournful trills of his phoenix, Fawkes. For three weeks, three agonizing weeks of searches and presumptions, no one had seen hair or hide of Harry Potter. The boy had, in all sense, vanished from sight. Albus, sighing, laced his fingers together and closed his eyes, already feeling a migraine forming. He knew who was to blame, oh yes, and he had brought his _disapproval _down on the heads of the Gryffindor household.

McGonagall, after coming forward with news that Harry Potter had not been present for the past few hours, immediately also informed him of the troubling news of what occurred within her own house. Neville Longbottom, as frightened as he was about being targeted by his housemates, had confirmed her suspicion that the others had been bullying Mr. Potter – viciously, from what he told. They had even gone as far as to burn and destroy the boys' only possessions. Albus and McGonagall alike had sentenced all the offenders (Ron, Hermione, Dean, Seamus, Lavender and the Weasley twins) three months' worth of detention for their deplorable action against a fellow student.

Though none of this could change the truth of the matter: Harry Potter was missing.

The Prophet and Ministry, having caught wind of this development, immediately blew it out of proportions, going as far as to claim that Mr. Potter had ran off to fulfill his quest to become the new Dark Lord. It was all madness. Sighing once more, Albus raised his eyes toward Fawkes, smiling tightly at his loyal familiar. Giving a trill of understanding to his worries, Albus turned his attention the space before him. The tracking spells he had placed on the boy had given nothing when he'd checked him. The wards of Hogwarts had not indicated that a student had left the grounds. And without blood or hair from Harry Potter, finding the boy was posing to be near impossible.

His temples throbbed.

Never in all his years had Albus conceived such a disaster to present itself. A decade of careful planning and small bouts of compulsory magic within Ron Weasley and Hermione Granger damaged by the woes of a madwoman (Molly Weasley) and feed by the lies of the Ministry and Prophet. And now the one hope this world had to defeating Voldemort had, quite literally, disappeared from under his nose.

"Where could he be, Fawkes?" he mused softly to his familiar. "All the places he could be and he's nowhere." He sighed a thrice time. "I'm worried about him, Fawkes."

A quiet croon of agreement was his answer.

Frowning deeply, Albus found himself recalling the night during the Welcoming Feast. He had rightly figured that the public as a whole would not take kindly to Mr. Potter, but when he had looked into the boys' magical core he was astounded by leakage of dark magic within the previously light core. It left him to conclude that the blockage he had put on the boy was fracturing.

This was truly a mess.


	3. Chapter Three

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Harry Potter. All characters, organizations, spell craft, and such material belongs to J. K. Rowling and Warner Bros. All Rights reserved to the respective parties. This is a work of Fan Fiction and has no profitable gain. This still applies in my later chapters, though I choose not to reiterate.

**Warning:** Slash (graphic and offensive material, suicide attempts, underage sex, major character deaths, scenes of child abuse, attempted rape, gore, murder. Weasley, Hermione and Dumbledore (Slight) bashing. This is not a story to be enjoyed with good humor, expectations of fluff, or even coffee. The theme is dark, there will be many scenes of defamation of corpses, mentions of implied genocide, and other strictly mature matters.

**Synopsis:** Crippled by the guilt of an unforeseen death, Harry Potter does not know what is in store for him when he returns for the Fifth Year at Hogwarts. Slandered by the Ministry and Prophet and annexed by his own friends, something within Harry snaps. An evil awakened within him, he will do unto the world what they did to him. | Neutral!Harry, Slash, Weasley!Hermione!Bashing |

**Note: **I was really surprised by the great show of interest and support this story managed to occur. Thank you to everyone who reviewed, and to those who patiently waited for this chapter. Most of the chapter is set during the time in which Harry was absent from public eye, and will revolve around his overall character development and growth. Enjoy.

―

**Chapter Three**

―

His awakening was not by his own accord, but rather by the persistent throb of migraine. With a groggy croak, he rolled onto his side, fingers kneading the flesh of his temples to chase away the pulsing presence without improvement. Blinking his eyes open, Harry mumbled incoherent words as he pushed himself upright. For a few minutes he settled on staring, mouth slightly agape, at the unfamiliar room before him. Furnished in deep, rich décor of the darkest blues and silver, a fire crackled merrily from the white marble hearth. Combing his fingers through his hair, Harry immediately took notice of the difference in texture and length, something that brought a twist of unease in his stomach. His limbs did not feel like his own as he drew himself out of the wide bed, toes curling against the touch of soft fur as he stepped toward the vanity dresser off left of the four-poster bed. What he saw brought a hiss of shock from his lips.

The boy in the mirror could not be him, surely, for there was not a hint of his father's heritage in the face that gazed back at him evident horror. Tom Riddle – it was the only name that came to mind the longer he stared at the person in the mirror. From the defined, high cheekbones, to the snow white skin, slanted dark brows and halo of black brown hair tumbled to his shoulders, everything about the youth screamed Riddle. He was even taller, still slender but filled with a toning of muscle that was never there before. Harry's frowned deepened, his teeth worrying his lips for even the boys eyes were different; they were a shade darker than the bright emerald Harry was familiar with. It was unnerving. He tore his gaze away, suddenly feeling too faint to be on his feet any longer.

"**Sit down, Harry**," instructed the speaker in his head, jolting Harry's mind into a depth of flickering memories he could not quit yet bring himself to probe at. Seating himself on the edge of the bed, Harry raised his hands to touch the cool skin of his face, his brows furrowing deeper.

"What – what happened to me?" he breathed out, startled by the sound of his own voice. "Why do I look like _him_?"

"**Because I am him, Harry**," came the quiet murmur, almost reluctant.

There was a stillness in the air, a baited silence that was left untouched as Harry's mind raced to compute the given information. He had known about his connection with Voldemort – he wasn't stupid by any means to try and deny the obvious -, but to know the voice within in his head was actually Voldemort himself communicating with him was a…he couldn't even begin to explain it as hysterical laughter bubbled in his throat, barely escaping from his pursued lips. _Well, that proves it_, he thought bitterly, _they'll slaughter me the minute they find out I have Voldemort in my head_.

"**I won't allow them to hurt you, Harry**," the voice – Voldemort – interjected. "**I had sworn to protect you, and I will**."

"Why would you -?" the unfinished sentence hung in the air for a second before Harry asked in an even quieter tone. "What _are_ you?"

"**A fragment, Harry. I am Tom Riddle, and I am also Voldemort – but not entirely, never wholly for I am only a piece of his soul**," explained Voldemort (Tom?) simply. "**That night I had come for you and the curse had deflected, what remained of my soul was splintered from my body**."

"But not all of you left that night," supplied Harry as he closed his eyes and fell back onto the bed. "Your fragment – the soul, it cut away from that thing Voldemort became that night, right?"

"**Yes, and a soul cannot survive within the mortal realm without a vessel, something to contain it**."

"So you latched onto me, the only living thing," finished Harry. There was a moment of silence. "That doesn't excuse what you did to my parents – to me."

"**I would not ask for your forgiveness to begin with**," said the latter.

"You wouldn't deserve it," muttered Harry angrily, turning to his side to face away from the mirror. Tendrils of hair tickled his cheek and jaw, annoying him somewhat as he burrowed his gaze at the dark wall before him. "Because you don't care that they died, or what happened to me."

"**I will not lie to you and say that I feel remorse for their deaths because I do not. I killed them, and that will not change anything. It will not bring them back to life and it will not remove the scars of negligence and abuse you had faced at the hands of those** _Muggles_."

"So why bother telling me not to jump? It would have saved you – Voldemort, I guess – from having to kill me." Grazing his fingers over the silk material beneath him, Harry shut his eyes once more. "It would have saved everyone a whole lot of trouble."

"**I will admit I saved you under the circumstances that if you die, I fade with you – and that I cannot allow.**" Harry snorted at that. "**But I had also took you away from an impending dance with death because if any is due to face death it is those who dare to call themselves your friends**."

"You're no better than them," Harry pointed out, a stinging pain in chest at the very mention of his schoolmates.

"**No, I am better.** **Unlike your** _friends_, **Harry I will have the curtsey to attack you directly, not when your back has turned in trust**."

"Good to know," Harry grumbled, legs stretching outward. In spite of the ludicrousness of this entire situation – who would have thought he would ever have a decent conversation with Voldemort without it ending it torture – a small part of Harry could not help but to be thankful for the truth. He wasn't fooled, of course, this was Voldemort after all – a fragment of him, but still him nonetheless, and man was bound to be deceitful. Still…Harry, brushing away the locks of hair from his face, inquired: "Where am I anyway? The last thing I remembered was being on the Astronomy tower and then blank."

"**Ah that's due on my own part**," said Tom (thinking him as Voldemort was stroke waiting to happen.) "**In all sense and purpose I had taken over your body and led you into the Chamber of Secrets. Currently we are residing in the Slytherin's quarters. It was the most convenient and least likely place anyone would care to look for their missing savior.**"

Grimacing, Harry quickly hissed out: "What do you mean you took over my body? I thought you were just a fragment of a soul?"

"**I am, but remember I too share this body with you**," drawled Tom in a manner that was too self-satisfying for Harry's taste. "**Oh don't be so put off, Harry. I did not harm you in any way – though the change of appearance was a factor of my presence.**" 

There Harry frowned. "That doesn't make sense. If you've been a part of me for fifteen years, how come I never looked anything like you before?"

"**I was dormant before, though not by my own choice. Someone – my guess being that old fool – had placed a blockage on your core, inevitably reducing your own magical supply but also successfully restraining the influence of my own taint into it. Though the barrier was for not seeing as the emotional turmoil you had been undergoing splintered it. Your magic, however, in order to fully dissolve it needed a reactive moment**."

"Reactive moment?" echoed Harry in confusion.

"**Yes. Consider it like accidental magic. When scared or angry, your magic reacts in regards to the more powerful emotion. During your contemplation for death, between your fear and underlying desire, it had snapped in preparation to remove your person from that dangerous situation. Had you jumped my assumption is that you would have landed safely**."

"So you being able to speak is my doing?"

"**In a sense, yes**," responded Tom, and Harry scowled at the sensation that the fragment was smirking. "**Once the barrier that been fully removed, I was able to do what I couldn't before: partake in your existence. Its rather tedious being a silent observer in the life of the boy wonder**."

Flushing a little, Harry moved onto his next question. "Okay so you saved my life and took me inside the Chamber – how long was I out?"

"**A week, and during that time I had healed most of the internal damage done and regrown broken bones**" – Harry, wincing at the memory of his assault, rubbed absently at his stomach – "**that house elf, Dobby, is rather devote to you. He has yet to inform anyone of your whereabouts, thankfully, so I say you must praise him for his loyalty when he returns with your breakfast**."

Contemplating the amount of truth Tom Riddle may have given during this conversation, Harry was still taken aback when the house-elf mentioned popped into the center of the room. Scrambling to his knees, Harry peered at the small creature as Dobby placed a tray of dishes onto the bedside nightstand. With a wide grin on his face, the elf drew out vials of potion and held them out for Harry. "Mister Harry Potter sir Dobby has potions Harry Potter wanted," pipped the elf with such pride and joy that Harry could not help but to smile.

"Thank you, Dobby," he said, taking the vials away from the elf and placing them beside the silver tray. "Has anyone asked you of my whereabouts yet?"

"Yes, Sir," Dobby nodded quickly. "Headmaster Dumbledore has made many people search for you everywhere but Dobby is a good elf. Dobby will not tell where Mister Harry Potter sir is."

"Good, you can go now. I'll call you if I need anything." When Dobby disappeared with a quiet _pop_, Harry shifted his focus onto the assortment of food he had brought along. Grabbing onto the bowl of porridge and a spoon, he dug in with a contented hum at the taste of cinnamon. He ate in relative silence, and found that he didn't mind not having to hear the voice of Riddle in his head – not yet anyway. "So," Harry said at last, biting into the corner the toast. 'Do I call you Tom or Voldemort?"

"**Tom will suffice**," responded Tom with an echo of a sigh.

"Well then, nice to make your acquaintance at last, Tom."

"**Likewise, Harry**."

―

The days to follow blended into one, a simplistic routine of awakening and, eating whatever Dobby brought that day along with the various nutrition potions, and spending the remainder of the morning mediating. Mediating was a rather calming, bring forth a sense of detachment from the physical world, but Harry quickly realized that the only reason Tom had insisted he fall into a trance like state was so he could further merge with Harry. It wasn't a pleasant experience by any means.

Grimacing, Harry tried to ignore the subtle unfurling of unease in his stomach as his fingers moved without his permission to do so. Tom, once more, was tweaking with his body as Harry was forced to take a bystanders perspective within his own mind. Scowling a little, the dark-haired boy patiently waited for the other to finish examining his body before hissing when he was plunged back into consciousness. Bringing himself back to his feet, he swayed as the dizziness passed through him. "Is it always going to be like this when you take over?" asked Harry with a note of tiredness in his voice. They had been switching controls from one another for the past few hours, and the weight of it was finally settling in.

"**No, not always**," said Tom thoughtfully. "**Just enough so that you'll have access into the recesses of my own core should yours deplete." **

"How are you able to give me your magic? You don't have a body – well you do, buts it mines," stated Harry with a frown. 'And I'm not very comfortable with your taking over whenever you want."

"**I am be a mere soul, Harry, but I am not without my magic – body or not. Of course this is not the extent of my full power, but it is enough to bind us closer together**." Tom paused. **'I will not take control of your body any longer, if it unnerves you so.**"

"How do I know that you will?" asked Harry dubiously.

"**Lord Voldemort keeps his word**," Tom sniffed. "**Anyhow, I believe it's time that you return before Dumbledore demands the Ministry send out search groups.**"

"How long has it been?"

"**A month at best**," answered Tom.

Giving a thoughtful hum, Harry narrowed his eyes, tongue on the roof of his mouth as he tried to fasten the silver tie. It took a few minutes of concentration before he fixed it. Tilting his head, Harry could not help but to think that – while he looked entirely unlike himself – he did look good. Between the dark suit he wore beneath the black robes with silver trimming, hair tousled and parted at the side with a few locks tucked behind his ear, had he not been a humble person he would have quit easily proclaimed himself to be handsome. Blushing at the hushed laughter within his mindscape, Harry retrieved his wand from the nightstand and turned to the entrance of the cavernous chamber.

"_Open_," he hissed, directing his words to the barreled entrance. Once it fell open and revealed the interior of the chamber, Harry cast a glance to the carcass of the Basilisk. Tom, strangely quiet in his head, did not comment on the serpent kings corpse – most likely having witnessed Harry slaying it three years before. He felt pity, maybe, but then again the giant snake had been trying to kill him so he can't say he really regretted his actions. "_Stairs_," he sighed when he came a halt before the exit of the chamber.

Clambering quickly up the steps and commanding the entrance to the chamber to reveal itself, Harry climbed out of it and sealed the chamber once more. Moaning Myrtle, who had drifted closer at the sound of the pipes gurgling and circular sink returning to its original position, stared at him with wide eyes and an open mouth.

"Oh," she breathed, "Tom it's been so long since I last saw you. You haven't changed a bit."

Harry felt the corner of his mouth rising in a smile. "Myrtle," he acknowledged. "I would stay and chat but I have business to attend to."

"Oh," Myrtle said, frowning slightly. "You'll come back to visit me, right?"

"Yes," Harry said absently as he made his way out of the girls' bathroom. Pausing outside of the door, he tossed over his shoulder "Oh, and its Harry, Myrtle. Not Tom" and left a gaping ghost in his wake. The walk from the bathroom to the Great Hall acquired numerous, curious glances from the very same people who had openly stared at Harry with venomous dislike. Masking his annoyance and various other emotions of conflict with a stoic disinterest, Harry all but glided into the Great Hall. Breakfast was underway and a Harry, keeping the scowl from his expression when Ron and Hermione jerked their heads in his direction, stopped before the staff table. Dumbledore, present for the first time on a weekend, frowned lightly at him.

"Ah, and whom may you be?" he enquired

"**He look as if he'd seen a ghost.**" hummed Tom.

_I am as well be_, thought Harry with a pursue of his lips. Appearing as the doppelganger of an enemy, more precisely an enemy with delusions of immorality and a cruelness as well as charm, could spook any. Still, with all eyes on him and the question hanging impatiently in the air, Harry knew he could no longer prolong the silence. So he answered with a simple:

"Harry Potter, headmaster Dumbledore."

All hell broke loose.


End file.
